


Kid Gorgeous

by poiregourmande



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), John Mulaney (RPF), US Comedians RPF
Genre: College, Drunk Sex, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, but not a college au, hint: he is not, is shane a serial killer?, kid gorgeous spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 19:57:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15275073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poiregourmande/pseuds/poiregourmande
Summary: Shane has a secret, and he wants to trust Ryan with it - or maybe two secrets, actually.





	Kid Gorgeous

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a part of my buzzfeed drabbles challenge, but it got out of hand. enjoy the rarest pair i've ever written and please flail with me

Ryan thought he knew everything there was to know about his partner and best friend Shane. They’ve been working together for years, as a team, and although there’s times where Shane is what can best be described as absolutely insane, Ryan felt like he had a pretty good understanding of the inner workings of Shane’s brain.   
  
Until that fateful day in November – a day better suited as the backdrop to any of their Unsolved episodes than to a guys night in, playing video games. Ominous thunderstorms, ice cold rain, a sky that goes dark at three in the afternoon.   
  
Shane comes back from the kitchen with two beers, but instead of dropping down next to Ryan on the couch, he eyes him, as if trying to decide something. He finally nods, inscrutable, and sets the beers on the table before walking over to his bedroom. Ryan stays seated, unsure what to do.   
  
“Come. I wanna show you something.” Shane’s voice is steady but low, serious – every trace of his usual mischief or laidbackness gone from it.   
  
Thunder booms as Shane steps into his bedroom, out of view, and Ryan jumps two feet into the air. He takes a sip of beer to steel himself before following.   
  
Shane is waiting in his room, his back to his closet door. Or, Ryan notices, one of his closet doors, for there is another door on Ryan’s left.   
  
But Shane unlocks the door behind him with an old fashioned key, determined frown on his face, and opens it to reveal what is very much not a closet.   
  
Shane Madej has a secret room off his bedroom.   
  
Ryan goes all wide eyes and high-pitched voice, cheeks burning with the weight of the discovery.   
  
“Holy shit man, is that a secret room? Dude you’re a serial killer, I knew it!”  
  
Ryan starts to laugh but quickly realizes he’s alone with a serial killer, who just showed him his secret, and no one knows he’s here.   
  
Ryan Bergara is about to die.   
  
He looks around wildly for something, anything that could be a suitable weapon – in an ironic and completely useless move, his brain settles on the plushie of Gene French Fry on Shane’s bed and Ryan latches on to it. Neither a weapon nor a source of comfort, and Shane looks at him like he’s the biggest idiot he’s ever seen. Grins.   
  
“Ryan, get a grip. I’m not a serial killer. Come here.”  
  
“This is exactly what a serial killer would say.”  
  
“Look, Ryan, there’s a baseball bat behind the door. Grab it, if it makes you feel any better, and then come here.”  
  
Ryan crab walks to the door, groping for the bat behind it, never once letting Shane out of his sight. Once he got a firm grip around it, he points it at Shane.   
  
“No funny business, understood?”  
  
“I mean, what I’m about to show you _is_ pretty funny, so this is an unfair request, really.”  
  
Ryan grips the bat harder, steps closer. “You know what I mean.”  
  
Shane sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Of course I know what you mean, Ryan, you’re my best friend and I know you. Look I’m about to tell you my biggest secret, because I trust you. Can you trust me too?”  
  
“Is your biggest secret the fact that you’re a serial killer?”  
  
“Will you just come here?” Shane is increasingly exasperated and Ryan figures it’s probably not a good idea to get on the bad side of a murderer, so he nods and walks up to him.   
  
Shane motions him into the small room. Against his better judgement, Ryan walks in first.   
  
Thunder resonates through the room, and the lights go out for a second. Ryan shrieks, drops his bat, and grabs Shane’s hand.   
  
And really, Ryan’s instincts must be the worst in the whole world. What should you do when you’re startled? Certainly not drop your weapon and grab the hand of the nearest serial killer.   
  
The lights come back and for a moment Ryan is still too shaken up to really take in the contents of the room. Then he sees it.   
  
They’re in a small room – maybe like a walk-in closet – and the walls are covered in shelves. On them, dozens of old black and white or sepia pictures in antique frames.   
  
The focal point of the whole room, alone on its shelf, is a pinned butterfly.   
  
“Holy shit,” Ryan breathes out, scrambling to pick up the bat. “You really are a serial killer.”  
  
“What? No!”  
  
“These are all mementos from the people you killed, is that it?”  
  
“What? Ryan, no, of course not!”  
  
“Then what is it?”  
  
“When I go to parties, I get bored, and so I steal old family pictures. Started it back in high school.”  
  
Ryan shoots him a puzzled look. “Why?”  
  
“Because it’s the one thing you can’t replace.”  
  
The line lights a spark of recognition in Ryan’s memory. And then he dissolves in hysterical, wheezing laughter. “Dude! Dude you stole that from John Mulaney.”  
  
Shane just smirks. “Did I steal it? Or did I inspire him?”  
  
“Y-you know Mulaney? No, the dude in the bit was called Alex.”  
  
Shane cocks up an eyebrow, frustratingly calm. “Shane. Alexander. Madej.”  
  
“So you really know John Mulaney?”  
  
“Oh, I really _know_ him.”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“I think you know what it means.”  
  


* * *

  
  
College party - you know the drill. Someone’s house, red solo cups, kegs, weed, hook-ups in every bedroom.   
  
Not really Shane’s turf. He’s here cause his friend didn’t want to come alone. And he figured he might score a pic or two for his collection.   
  
“You, sir, are a rocking twink,” slurs a voice to his left.   
  
John Mulaney. Not really a friend, more like a friend of a friend, someone who went to the same high school but was two years older. Shane’s always liked the dude. He looks like the most innocent, most clean-cut guy, until he hits the liquor. Then he’s a legend.   
  
Right now, he seems tipsy, but not that far gone, and anyway Shane is kinda stoned so he just chuckles. A rocking twink. If anyone’s a twink it’s Mulaney.   
  
“Hey, John.”  
  
“You know me?”  
  
“John, we were in high school together. We were both at Jake McNamara’s party, y’know?”  
  
“Can’t say I remember much about that night, frankly.”  
  
“I’m Shane.”  
  
John narrows his eyes. “Shane. I’m gonna try to commit you to memory, cause it would be a shame to forget such a rocking twink.”  
  
Shane tries hard not to laugh. The guy has like, no game at all, but he’s cute and Shane’s stoned and bored – there isn’t a single picture worth nicking in the entire house – so Shane pulls him by his shirt. Plants a messy kiss on his lips, pulls back, puzzled.   
  
“Why do you taste like – is that perfume?”  
  
“Cause I drank perfume.”  
  
Shane shrugs. Fair enough.   
  
What John lacks in game he makes up in enthusiasm and damn, Shane can barely keep up. Soon, they’re in a miraculously empty bedroom, John on his knees in front of him, frantically trying to get Shane’s pants open.   
  
Shane’s cock is out and John is about to get down to business when he freezes, looks in the distance as if the answer to life, the universe and everything was written right there on the wall.   
  
Shane nudges his shoulder with a knee. “Is everything – “  
  
“What would Leonard Bernstein do?” John murmurs, with the air of a guy who's reevaluating all his life choices.  
  
Shane shrugs. He’s heard – and said – his fair share of weird stuff in bed. This might as well happen.   
  
“Blow me, probably.”  
  


* * *

  
  
“So...”  
  
“So?”  
  
“Did he?”  
  
Shane wraps his hand around Ryan’s, coaxes the baseball bat out of it and lets it clatter to the ground. Delighting in his own air of mystery like the bastard he is, he smirks at Ryan.   
  
“What do you think? What _would_ Leonard Bernstein do? Or better yet, what would Ryan Bergara do?”  
  
Ryan drops to his knees. The only thing he _can_ do. Namely, fuck his best friend to celebrate the fact that he’s not a serial killer. And also take care of business, cause that story was arousing as hell.   
  
He’s halfway through pulling Shane’s pants down when he sees it. And now that he sees it he can’t ignore it anymore.   
  
He scrambles to his feet and bolts out the room.   
  
“Ryan?”  
  
“There’s no way in hell I’m blowing you while your creepy butterfly watches me. Your bed will have to do.”


End file.
